Like a BAMF! Out of Hell
by Su-Whisterfield
Summary: You're not really supposed to want to escape heaven. Or raise yourself from the dead, for that matter. There are Rules about such things, even for superheroes. Can Messrs Crowley and Aziraphale, Relationship Councillors, find a loophole? Our heroes better hope so, or there will be Hell (or possibly Heaven) to pay. X-Men canon from the pages of Amazing X Men volume 1. 2014.


"Got some bad news for you, mate, I think you nailed an angel the other night."  
We've all been avoiding the 'A' word up until now.  
"Aw, crap." Short, dark and hairy glances across at tall, dark and beautiful, sat beside him on the plush red sofa.  
"Oh dear," she breathes.  
My thoughts exactly. Feathers everywhere on the astral.  
"If it's any consolation, you probably saved his immortal soul and stopped half of hell passing him round like a party favour. But it's gonna make things interesting for a while."

I don't do mutants. Got enough on my plate, without opening that particular can of worms, ta muchly. But then, to be fair, they mostly stick to their side of the fence and leave the metaphysical shit to us pros. Mostly.  
But the astral lit up when they did the deed and the eastern seaboard of the USA is still on fire with mana, Someone's going to want answers. Always trouble, when amateurs get involved. Necromancy for beginners is not a good idea, either.

*****  
Weather systems across the globe are giving most of the continents the best, most appropriate weather they've had in years, it's snowing where there should be snow, raining where it needs rain and it's unbroken sunshine in Britain, hot, but not too hot.

But then there are minor conflicts springing up all over the place too, as though the forces of chaos are also gaining a hold.

Earth might be going to hell in a hand basket, but it will have perfect weather for the event.

"But I'm not... you know." He waves his hand in a generally upwards direction.

Aziraphale gives a gentle, indulgent smile "Ah, but I'm afraid you _were,_ my dear, sweet..." he's about to say boy, isn't he? Yellow eyes narrow, there's a whiff of brimstone. Oops. Quick change of tack "You were up in Heaven, made it through the gates and attained paradise eternal. I'm rather afraid that does make you an angel, er, well it did make you one, past tense."

His face is stricken, a man with faith, he's very aware of what he's lost. Aziraphale gets a very strong urge to put an arm around those _beautiful _shoulders, but the temptation is resisted. Just.  
"You're really not supposed to want to leave, er, fall, er, jump, you know, much less find a way to do it. It causes all sorts of administrative problems. But let me and Mr Crowley see what we can do to sort something out for you. Do drink your tea."

A whole row of the little indigo putti are watching from behind the chaise, keeping an eye on their brother, Aziraphale thinks, but every time he looks at them, full on, they disappear. They're shy, how charming.  
Now, where did he put the sugar tongues, they were here a moment ago. His guest's hands are trembling slightly around the fine china cup, what he needs is more hot, sweet tea, poor thing, this must all be a terrible shock to the system.

Gotta admit, he did it in style, even I'm impressed. Pirates. Sword fights. General swashbuckling and daring do. But it shouldn't have been down to him to stop an invasion, family connection or no.

I'm working on a couple of lists, so far I have -

Shit that _is_ his fault -  
1\. Raising yourself from the dead, _very_ impressive, but not to be encouraged,  
2\. Being AWOL from Upstairs 'cos there's gonna be Hell to pay when they realise he's gone,

Then there's the little matter of number three on the list. '3. Hot Tantric sex magic which binds your soul to that of your best mate, who, by the way, is a homicidal maniac, and also the soul of the local weather goddess'. Hm. That's a bit trickier.

And shit that's _not _his fault -  
1\. Having deeply dubious parents.  
2\. The huge security fail. Someone up there should be shot for allowing through several vast pirate ships, crewed by the damned, to pillage and try to glean the souls of the dead. It should not have been left to a bunch of mutants to pull the holy fat from the fire.

I read the files in my own place, they stink so much Aziraphale won't have them in his, can't say I blame him.

Pretty boy's mum is a looker, always was. A deadly, shapeshifting red head with a taste for corvids. And a belt made up of little skulls. She's not exactly being subtle about it, is she?

But daddy? My, what a nasty, sneaky, clever, little plan; using your son's soul to get a fix on getting into heaven, I'm impressed. Still, something niggles; sure he looks the part, but I'm just not convinced Azazel is anything other than a chancer, a low level demon, looking for promotion to the Premier League from the Fourth Division. He might have got lucky and scored way above his pay grade but something doesn't add up, and she's never been a reliable narrator.

Hm, in this case I'd want a maternity test, let alone a paternity test, kid should sue 'em both.

And then there's the issue of all those little incubi. Not quite sure where they fit in. Or what they are for that matter. There's one watching me now, a small patch of blue ink with golden eyes. I should set a trap, take one to pieces, see what we're dealing with, but I'm busy with these files, and the incubi are not going anywhere, they follow him around like demonic puppies, so I _look at it and it disappears, with an indignant fart._

Yeah, when the heavenly shit hits the fan, I am _so l_ooking forward to rubbing their snotty noses a cock up of this magnitude. No matter how you look at it, Azazel shouldn't have got in there, and all the kid did after that was self defence. Easy.

*****  
Their client tells Aziraphale everything, in a soft, husky voice, he doesn't lie and he doesn't try to hide the enormity of what he's done. He doesn't make excuses either, in his mind, losing his soul to lock his father out of heaven is a reasonable sacrifice. Making himself a new body and appointing himself his father's keeper, well, he confesses that hasn't gone so well. He thought he could do it, so he did, even though he shouldn't have had a hope in hell. Heaven. How interesting.

"So he's already escaped, he's out there, no doubt up to no good, and I have absolutely no idea how to track him or how to contain him." He bites his lip. "Magic really isn't something I know much about. Maybe it wasn't the best of plans..." his voice drops to a whisper and he hangs his head. "How do I live without a soul?" The crux of the matter, from his point of view.

Aziraphale glances across, his client is fiddling with his tail, he looks like a sixteenth century woodcut made flesh, he belongs in The Bodleian, or gracing St Paul's, not a slightly threadbare chaise longue in Aziraphale's office. Those cheekbones...

In all fairness, those Upstairs, wouldn't have batted an eye about his outer shell, they are good about things like that and, despite his dubious parentage and recent, er, shenanigans, the purity of him fills the room like mana from heaven. Literally.  
He's being as honest as he can be, there's no duplicity, other than the blindingly obvious self delusion; he didn't reanimate himself to keep an eye on his father, he did it to be back with those he loves more than heaven itself.

There's also some confusion going on here.  
"Oh, my dear, you poor thing, you haven't so much as _lost _your soul as," Aziraphale is struggling for the right metaphor. "Mortgaged it. You've mortgaged it to your little friends."  
He waves at the row of little blue faces. They disappear with a combined squeak of fear, they're as scared of him as they of Crowley, but for different reasons.

Aziraphale has met those with no soul, and those whose soul has been replaced by Something Else, you can always tell, there's a spark missing from their eyes. But, strange and captivating as his client's golden eyes are, in the narrow, dark face, they are painfully human, particularly at the moment when he looks up at Aziraphale, with a flicker of hope for the first time.  
Oh, my, he's just so lovely.

"Dearie me, it's warm in here, let me open a window."

The words ' 4. Mortgaged his soul' appear to have added themselves to Crowley's shit list.

They share a quiet dinner at an exclusive little place off The Strand, to compare notes.

"With _both _of them? At the same time?" Aziraphale contemplates the other two in this complex mess, he would have thought that either one would have been sufficient for any lifetime. Greedy. He's getting some interesting visuals "Goodness me, what a busy boy he's been, necromancy and hot tantric sex magic, all in one night."

Crowley stirs his drink with his finger, damnit, no one gives you a plastic straw these days. Or even a little paper umbrella.  
"He's got impressive, um, natural talent. And quite a lot of stamina. I'll say this for him, if you needed to seal you spirit back into your physical form, choosing a storm goddess and an elemental force of chaos would both be very good picks to do the deed."  
An unanchored spirit, particularly one so recently descended into a virgin, unsullied, body would have been easy pickings for all manner of unsavoury types. Crowley is also getting visuals now and there's a hint of burning in the air, must be the _creme brûlée_ on the next table.

"How are they taking it?"  
Crowley scrubs his hand through his hair. "Surprisingly well. I'm kinda guessing that they've seen some weird shit over the years? They're mostly just happy he's back with them."  
"Happy?"  
"Very, very Happy.".  
"How sweet. Are you sure you don't want to speak with our ex-angel, Crowley? I'm not what else I can do for him."  
"Oh, I think not." Crowley is sure, well, pretty sure, that he can keep his hands off a debauched angel-who-looks-like-a-devil when in polite company, but he's much less sure he could resist if they were alone. "Thing is, I'm not getting any residuals, whatever they got up to the night he came back, if they were still magically linked, we should be able to feel it. Let's sit our clients down and have a little chat."

They sit, side by side by side, on Crowley's expensive red flocked sofa, like three recalcitrant school children in front of the headmaster. Aziraphale is picking up anger and confusion and, yes, even fear, but most of all, he's feeling the love. Their ex-angel sits in the middle, head bowed, staring at the floor, his hands clasped loosely. It brings a momentary lump to Aziraphale's throat. So much trust, so much love, but it could all go sour very easily if they aren't very careful.

Crowley is steepling his fingers and looking at the three of them over his glasses, his eyes are obvious, his power is obvious, the anger in the room starts to eclipse the bliss, rolling out of the short powerhouse of a man on the left of the sofa. There's the sound of metal being unsheathed and the poor sofa groans in protest but their fallen angel dissipates the fury with a gentle touch, merely the tightening of his fingers on the other man's muscular arm and the softest "No."

Crowley clears his throat.  
"Right. First things first, the minor matter of," he rolls his eyes "escaping heaven. That, we can deal with and the fall out from it." He waves his hand. "They're going to be so embarrassed about letting Azazel in, with only you, if you don't mind me saying so, mere mortals, to fight him off, I think we can bamboozle them about the rest."

"I'm _sure _we can." Aziraphale smiles, beatific. "Several people in accounts owe me."

"But about that other thing." Crowley waves at the window. It's the middle of August, however, it's glorious sunshine in London, hot but not too hot. "That's down to the three of you..."

*****  
They're back in Storm's loft in the Mansion.  
Wolverine aims a kick at one of her innocent pot plants, "Bloody, fuckin' idiotic..."  
"Logan, stop it." they speak in unison and he glares at both of them.  
He points angrily at Nightcrawler. "Your fault..."

Kurt pinches the bridge of his his nose, he can feel the mother of all headaches coming on, but Logan is right, they don't feel any further on than they were two days before, still linked, still totally inside each other's space, each other's minds. Ororo, goes over and gently steers Logan to one side.  
"Please, calm down."  
He growls at her, it's bordering on a snarl and he nods his head over at Kurt, stood, alone, arms wrapped loosely around himself "'Make him cry' What kinda dumb answer is that?"  
"Mr Crowley says that angels don't..."  
"Fuckin' stupid idea..."  
"Even so..."

"Please, please stop." He doesn't even have to raise his voice, it still cuts through their argument, killing it in its tracks. He feels worn out and threadbare from too little sleep and too much emotion. "I'm sorry, I'm so, so sorry I got you both caught up in this. I thought I was doing the right thing. I was scared. I was wrong, it's my battle not yours."

They're both over with him in a heartbeat.  
"Beloved," Ororo is a force of nature, quite possibly the most beautiful woman in the world and she cups his face in her hands and looks straight into his eyes, he just cannot argue with her when she is like this, no one could. "We would do _anything_ for you, anything, dear one, never doubt it. Why can't you believe us? We will find a way to make it right"  
He opens his mouth to answer her, but he can't put the words into form, can't make his emotions understood, even to himself.

But Logan doesn't do words, his mouth is hot and wet and he's kissing Kurt so hard it's hurting, his hand on the back of his neck, but he needs him to know, to go beyond the words and the thinking and just go with the emotion. He is primal fury, death and destruction rolled into one dangerous package and for this man he will put all that aside, all of it, just to make him happy, just to make him smile. Just to make him cry.

The sex is simple by comparison, animal instinct, slick and wet, and "Oh!" "Oh fuck." Being gentle, kind and considerate doesn't make you passive.  
They're all the best they are, at what they do.

Afterwards, when they are in a pile on the huge bed, unable to tell where one ends and another begins, that's much, much more important, that's about comforting and caring and friendship and healing.

It's just a single tear, sliding, almost unnoticed down a soft, blue cheek.  
Almost, but not quite, Logan gently brushes it aside. "Hey, darlin' it's okay."  
And so it is.

They've been bound together for years, it's always going to take more than a stupid thing like death to part the three of them for long.

"No spell, then?"  
"Nah, I checked and double checked. Nothing magical keeping them together at all. And he said it himself, he doesn't _know_ any hot Tantric sex magic, so it couldn't have been anything but their own feelings, binding them." Not that he knew any necromancy either, but that didn't slow him down much. Details, details.  
Aziraphale sighs, "How terribly sweet. So what was the 'angels don't cry' malarkey about?"  
"Just good old sleight of hand, if they think it breaks a spell, then it will. Even if there isn't one." Crowley snorts. "That feral little shit ruined my sofa, three great big slashes in it. Next time we do relationship counselling, we charge up front."  
"I'll make a note. We could bill them?" Aziraphale pulls out his new quill pen and a scrap of paper. The quill is the most beautiful shade of blue, he found it, with his sugar tongues and most of the teaspoons on the writing bureau this morning.

There's a grumble of thunder overhead, the sky darkening, normal British weather for August resumes. The warm summer rain spills down like angel's tears.


End file.
